


Bring Back You

by trustingHim17



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Story: The Adventure of the Empty House, implied suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:55:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27569380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingHim17/pseuds/trustingHim17
Summary: ‘cause events bring back all the memories, and the memories bring back you.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AU to EMPT and my stories “Reality of Dreams” and “Dreaming Reality.” Inspired in part by Maroon 5’s “Memories”  
> Fulfills Whumptober #6, #7, #8, #13, #16, #23, & Alt 10  
> 6\. Stop, please  
> 7\. Support  
> 8\. Isolation  
> 16\. Hallucinations  
> 13\. Breathe in breathe out.  
> 23\. Exhaustion  
> Alt 10. Nightmares

He ducked into the alcove, taking barely a moment to glance back before hurrying through the door.

Someone was following him.

He had been going to check the mail, wondering if Mycroft had finally sent an update, when he noticed the strange man dogging his steps. He had detoured twice, casually changing his path down various alleys and side streets, but the man had stayed behind him, and he gave up on the mail to lose the tail. He had apparently stayed here for too long, and he hoped only to lose the man long enough to reach his rooms. He would have to leave today.

The doors passed quickly as he limped down the breezeway between buildings, searching for the one he needed. It was awkward to constrain himself to his disguise while fleeing, but he did not believe the man following him knew _exactly_ who he was following, and it would not do to announce it now. He hurried toward one building that had an excellent layout for losing a tail.

Finding the door, he expertly navigated the labyrinthine laboratory building, and a tall Frenchman strode out the opposite side of the same building a Norwegian cripple had just entered, leaving his tail wandering the maze. He allowed himself a small smirk. Whoever had designed that building had been rather lacking in basic design skills, but the layout _was_ useful for losing someone. He would not be able to stay here even a day longer, but he did not want to leave the lab without informing his fellow workers if he did not have to, and losing his tail meant he would be able to return to his rooms once more before disappearing. He started planning what he would need to do to move cities again without either leaving his work at the lab in jeopardy or creating a trail to his next hideaway.

He stayed alert all the way back to his rooms but saw no indication that anyone paid him undue notice, and he breathed a faint sigh of relief as he bolted the door behind him. He would head north. The next train left in an hour, and, grateful for the luxury of time to leave, he started packing a bag, quickly sending a note to his fellow workers and gathering the few things he had left in his rooms that he would prefer not to leave behind.

He was nearly done when footsteps sounded in the hall, and he glanced up, tensing as he noted the easiest exits. The footsteps belonged to an overweight Englishman, and no one here fit that description. Had the man tailing him found him after all?

A heavy fist pounded on his door.

“Monsieur Monet! Monsieur!”

The French words belied both the heavily accented voice and the footsteps they accompanied, and Holmes hurried away from the door, rushing into the depths of his rooms as he made for the closest emergency exit. The pounding fist changed to a kicking foot, and the door gave with a crunch as Holmes sprinted for the window. Would he even have time to deploy the ladder he had made to hang from the second-floor bedroom?

He doubted it. He should have fought harder for ground floor accommodations.

Heavy footsteps hurried through the front room. Swinging his bag’s straps over his shoulders, he opened the window with ease as a large man appeared in his doorway.

_“Sherlock!”_ the man hissed just before he took his chances and dove over the sill.

He froze. That sounded like—

Releasing his grip on the frame, he turned to see his brother striding quickly across the room, relief mixing with something else in his gaze.

_“Mycroft?”_ he replied, stunned. “What are you doing here?”

His brother’s large hand landed on his shoulder, nearly dragging him away from the window in Mycroft’s version of a relieved embrace.

“Come,” he said instead of answering Holmes’ question. “We have just enough time to catch the next train.”

* * *

The days passed in a haze of routine.

I got up, I did my rounds, and I answered the occasional call from the Yard. Then, I stared blankly through the fire in my empty house for hours, unable to read, with nothing to write, unable to do anything but think. Sometime around midnight, I roused myself from the chair to move to my bedroom, where I waited for dawn, only to do it all again. Time did not matter. The worried looks Lestrade gave me did not matter. Nothing mattered.

Why would anything matter? I was alone.

I was floating in darkness, lost in a fog. I didn’t want to be here, but I had nowhere to go. The only thing that had kept me around thus far was a lack of another place to be.

Memories of years long past dominated my thoughts. Mary seemed to peer at me from around every corner of our empty house, waving at me to join her on the settee, cooking supper in the kitchen, reading on the bed. Some days, I could almost feel her hand on my shoulder as I sat at my desk, and I would turn, expecting to see her coaxing me away from my work.

She was never there, of course, and another piece of me crumbled away each time it happened.

I could not even escape the memories by going for a walk, for the streets of London were just as haunted as my silent house. Holmes lived in every alley, every intersection, every place we had ever gone, and I had stopped being surprised when he appeared next to me, walking with me down the street for several blocks in silence before just as quietly disappearing. Just like with Mary, I felt myself break a little more each time, torn between wanting the hallucinations to stop and desperately wishing he would stay, hallucination or no.

I did not have many pieces left to crumble.

The changing weather aggravated my old injuries, and the resultant throbbing brought memories of Maiwand forward. War fought for dominance with peaceful domesticity and adventuresome cases, and regressions hit almost regularly, sending me into the past either to the happier days that I dearly missed or to the blood, war, and horror that I tried to forget. Sometimes they melded, resulting in waking nightmares where I saw one or both of them killed on the battlefield in a variety of ways. More than once, I had wandered from my house in the midst of a regression, usually waking a block or so away, but it was only after I woke on the riverbank that I knew something needed to change.

I had put my house and practice on the market the next day, planning to move out of London when they sold, but weeks had passed, and I was beginning to doubt they would ever sell. Various other practices and buildings around town were selling almost faster than the owner could put up the sign, but no one had shown any interest even after I placed several ads in the papers.

I could not bring myself to be surprised. I was alone in everything else. Why not invisible, too?

My original plan had been to wait until the house sold and use the money to start over, but I forced myself to acknowledge that my options had changed the night before, when I had blinked out of yet another memory to find myself within sight of the river again. I was not the three steps away that I had been the first time—or even the fifty feet I had been from it the previous week—but that did not change the fact that I had been less than a hundred feet from suicide for the second time in a week. I had a choice to make.

I could continue as I was, waiting for the regression that would be the last, or I could leave immediately, taking only what I could carry on the next train out of town.

Did I want to leave early?

Or did I want to let nature take its course? 

For the first time in years, I wasn’t sure. I had no reason to stay, but I also had no reason to leave, no reason to start over. No reason to continue living the farce of a life that had been my existence for the months since Mary had died. Who would miss me? My wife was dead; I hadn’t been able to save her. My dearest friend was dead through my own negligence, and I had no family left. I dared not grow close to anyone; they would just end up dead, too.

I would never take my own life, but I could no longer deny that perhaps I would be better off dead.

Should I stay in London, waiting for a regression to kill me? It would be a simple way to go, and rather fitting, considering the casualty numbers from the battle of Maiwand. I could join them on a ten-year delay, for is it not a battle casualty if the battle forces its way to the present to kill me? It was no longer a matter of if I cared—I had stopped caring long ago. It was a matter of if I had a reason not to let it happen.

A recent police report crossed my mind, accompanied by Lestrade’s expression when I had announced that the man had died without ever waking from the sleepwalking during which he had fallen into the river. The horror and fear that had crossed the inspector’s face, followed by a brief glance at me, was ingrained in my memory. I could not do that to him. I could not let that report come across his desk.

That settled it. I could not claim to care if a regression carried me to the next life, but if one did, it would not be in London.

I needed to pack.


	2. Chapter 2

“What happened?” Holmes finally asked when they were safely in a first-class car, headed west. “Why are you here instead of sending a message?”

Mycroft scowled, quickly deducing everything that had happened in the last week with a simple scan.

“I did send a message,” he answered after a moment, a scowl clear in his tone though it no longer showed on his face. “I have sent several messages. When you did not answer, I warned you that if I had not heard from you in four days, I would come for you. Did you not receive any of them?”

Holmes shook his head, reflexively ducking out of sight of the window as they passed through a station. “I have received nothing from you since the holidays. I had no reason to believe anything but that there was nothing to send. Is that why you felt the need to break down my door?”

“Of course,” was the reply, conveying without words the worry that had been plaguing Mycroft for the last several days, if not weeks. Holmes let the topic drop, understanding that worry in a way he would not have a decade ago.

Mycroft continued studying him, his worry subtle but apparent on his face as he sank into his thoughts, and for the first time since seeing his brother in his room, Holmes knew a tendril of fear. He had other questions he wanted answered, of course, but those could wait. There was only one thing that could worry Mycroft now that he knew Holmes was alright.

“What happened?” he asked again, his gaze locked on his brother’s. “What happened to Watson? Is he—?”

He could not bring himself to finish the question, dreading the answer he feared was coming.

“He is alive,” Mycroft started, and Holmes nearly let his relief show before Mycroft continued, “as of two days ago.”

_No. Please no_.

“And now?”

Mycroft shook his head, still more focused on his thoughts than on the conversation. “I do not know. I left a guard with him, but any messages Riston sends will be at the station telegraph offices.”

“What changed?” Holmes pressed. “Is he sick? Why is Mary not caring for him? _What is wrong with Watson?”_ Holmes sat forward in his seat, the last part coming out in a tense near-hiss as he focused solely on his brother.

_Finally,_ Mycroft snapped out of his internal debate, realizing that Holmes was moments away from physically claiming his brother’s attention.

“Mary is dead,” he answered, “and the doctor is not handling it well. I have been telling you to return for nearly two months.”

Holmes studied his brother, searching for what Mycroft would not say. “You believe we may already be too late,” he breathed.

Mycroft hesitated but nodded. “He has faded more every day since her death, but more than ever in the last week. My guard had to wake him out of a sleepwalking spell a few days ago.” Mycroft paused, gauging how Holmes was taking this. “He was headed straight for the river,” he finished quietly.

Holmes leaned back, sitting limply as the knowledge washed over him. He might return hours too late to prevent utter failure.

* * *

Very little remained in that empty house that I cared to keep, and I had my bag packed within minutes. Several changes of clothes, all my money, my revolver, and one picture each of both Holmes and Mary fit easily into a small carrysack, and I scribbled a quick note before locking the door behind me. I would telegram Lestrade, asking him to inform my agent I had left with forwarding address pending and promising to let him know where I ended up, but I saw no reason to send the message until just before my train left. Lestrade had tried several times to convince me not to move, and I did not have the energy to listen to his arguments now. It was much simpler to inform him only when it was already too late for him to try to change my mind.

A cab dropped me at the station less than five minutes before the next train was due to leave, but I hesitated, staring at the list of trains displayed behind the ticket counter. Where did I want to go?

North, I decided after a moment. I knew the more rural areas of Scotland better than I did anything around London, and I would easily be able to find a small cottage in a town where I could live out whatever remained of my days in privacy.

And if it happened to be close to the sea, all the better, if only for the irony of a desert killing me in the ocean.

Ticket in hand and my telegram on its way to Lestrade’s office, I settled in an empty first-class car a few minutes later as the train pulled out of the station, hugging my carrysack in my lap and staring blankly out the window. A ten-hour ride would see me in Edinburgh, with another two hours to reach Aberdeen, and I leaned back in the seat as I thought about where I wanted to settle.

I had no interest in a large city; a city would be too similar to London for comfort. I wanted a village, somewhere completely different than anything I had known for the last ten years, and I started thinking through the areas I knew, looking for a place to suit my needs.

There were some rural areas just north of the Scotland border, I remembered, but a glance at the schedule showed that the closest stop to the border was Carlisle, about ten miles south of Scotland. I would have to disembark in Carlisle and catch a ride between towns unless I wanted to chance that the train would slow down enough for me to disembark between stations.

Amusement coursed through me, dying before it reached my expression. There had been several times over the years that Holmes had decided to forgo a station when the train slowed around a corner. I was convinced that most of those had been simply his idea of fun, especially when I grumbled about the stations being there for a reason, but occasionally, we had used such a trick to escape a tail.

That memory bled into another, pushing other considerations away for a while as the past came alive around me yet again.

* * *

Hours passed in silence as they traveled west. Even the fastest train felt like crawling, and Holmes eventually stood to pace the compartment, chasing his worry around in circles and ignoring how much his pacing rankled his brother.

“Sit down, Sherlock,” Mycroft finally snapped, breaking the silence as they got closer to where they would catch the ferry. “Wearing a hole through the carpet will do nothing but exhaust you before we even reach London.”

Holmes scowled but sat heavily, fidgeting in his seat until Mycroft’s serious gaze pinned him in place.

“What is it?” he asked when Mycroft remained silent, wishing he could read Mycroft’s thoughts as he did everyone else’s. Various scenarios ran through his mind, each discarded as too improbable.

“Ronald Adair was found dead in his room,” Mycroft replied, “shot in the head with a soft-nosed revolver bullet.”

Holmes frowned, momentarily perplexed at why Mycroft would bring this up. A thought crossed his mind. “Did he still live on Park Lane?” Mycroft nodded, and Holmes’ gaze lit with interest. “Only an air-gun could fire a revolver bullet into that room.”

“My men cornered Moran last night,” Mycroft replied simply, and Holmes raised an eyebrow, the silent question easily crossing the compartment. He would have thought Mycroft would want him to do the legwork to capture Moran.

“You would have had to choose,” Mycroft answered just as Holmes realized that for himself.

Relief coursed through him, and he nodded his thanks. He would have chosen Watson, of course, but that meant they would both have had to go into hiding.

If he reached Watson in time, that is.

He returned to pacing the compartment, and this time, Mycroft did not stop him.

* * *

The train was nearly to Carlisle before I came back to the question of where I wanted to go, and I ignored the announcement that the dining car was ready as I considered my options. Should I get off at the station and rent a cart to reach a border village, or should I go further into Scotland, looking for a rural area close to a stop?

The train jolted, breaking me out of my thoughts, and I pulled myself upright to look out. We slowed significantly, and the engineer walked the corridor, informing us that there was an issue with the engine. We would be slightly delayed pulling into Carlisle.

I shrugged it off, returning to my seat. I did not much care when we arrived, or even if we did, honestly. I did not want to be in a city even that size.

The train slowed even more, and I looked up as the realization bloomed. We were going far too slow to worry about injury, and several small villages in the distance were the only towns in sight. Why wait to reach a station when I could disembark now?

Strapping my carrysack to my back to avoid losing it, I grabbed my cane and stepped back into the hall. Several people crowded the door to the dining car to my right, and I turned left, casually making my way toward the back of the train and ignoring the shouting that lifted from the crowd behind me. I cared more about reaching a safe opening I could use to leave the train than someone causing trouble in the dining car.

The back of my car opened to a wide, empty platform, and I walked to the edge, checking for anything that could hinder my plan. There was nothing, however, and I allowed a faint grin. This would work nicely.

Smoke billowed from the engine as we slowed even further, and I took the opportunity. Within seconds, I was walking through the field, my back to the tracks as the train traveled on without me.

* * *

“Mid-morning train to Edinburgh,” the telegram read. “Carries only a small valise. Another sleepwalk to river last evening.”

The paper shook in his hand, and Holmes paid no mind to the sea spray quickly wetting the missive as he looked up at his brother, uncaring that his worry shone in his gaze.

“Mycroft?” he finally asked, the single word conveying the question burning his mind. Why would Watson leave everything if not to…

“He will not suicide, Sherlock,” Mycroft cut off the fear billowing through him. “He has been trying to move out of London for months. I have been blocking the sale of his practice, but Jackson has already taken most of his patients. He must have decided to leave with it unsold.”

Holmes relaxed as his largest fear diminished, but that left another question in its wake. “Where is he going?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Only he knows. Riston will update us as he can.”

* * *

A short walk easily carried me out of sight of the tracks, and I paused to get my bearings. The rolling fields and occasional trees behind me gave way to large hills and valleys further west, and I continued toward the shore. There would be fewer towns away from the sea, and if I wanted to restart a practice somewhere, I would need patients.

The sound of water carried on the breeze, and I adjusted my direction, more interested in exploring my surroundings than anything town had to offer. No matter how little the idea of food appealed to me, I would have to eat soon—if only to stay upright—but that could wait. Spending a few hours on the banks of a stream sounded like a much better idea than dealing with the stares inherent in a new town.

Sitting heavily on the rocky bank of a large creek, I relaxed as my mind eased minutely for the first time in weeks, and the evening slipped by.

* * *

“Well?”

Mycroft finally tore his gaze from the paper, passing him the telegram with a comment about engaging a special, and Holmes forced himself to read the missive in his hand as Mycroft gestured to one of his guards.

“Jumped from train 20 miles from Carlisle. Uninjured. Last seen headed west.”

_Jumped?_ _Last seen?!_

“Riston _lost_ him?!” he nearly snarled.

A lad hurried up to them before Mycroft could reply, handing over an urgent telegram envelope in exchange for a coin, and Holmes read over Mycroft’s shoulder as he quickly unfolded the paper, revealing four words.

“Moving toward River Eamont.”

Only his brother’s large hand on his shoulder got him to the special, and Holmes paced the length of the car, trying to convince himself that Watson could not be planning what Holmes feared he was.

* * *

I jerked awake, breathing heavily. This was not my sitting room. Where was I?

Stiffly pulling myself upright, I looked around, ready to run. Which memory was real? Was I still at war?

Moonlight glinted off water, grass, and stones, and only the soothing sounds of flowing water met my ears.

Yesterday came rushing back, and I relaxed again. I was safe enough here. The stars said it was sometime shortly after midnight, and I leaned back against the rocks, using a convenient patch of grass as a pillow. I saw no reason to leave the creek now, and, while I was surprised I had even fallen asleep, a night spent under the stars was still better than one spent in that empty house.

Movement caught my eye, and I pushed myself halfway up to see a familiar form pacing the other bank, his armchair seemingly resting next to a hollow behind him. I laid back down with a sigh. Even in wide open country over two hundred miles from London, I still could not leave the ghosts behind.

I eyed the creek, wondering how deep it was.


	3. Chapter 3

Holmes hit the small town’s platform almost before the train stopped moving, quickly spotting the telegraph office and hurrying towards it. A quick word with the clerk landed an envelope in his hand, and he barely noticed Mycroft catch up as he ripped open the telegram.

“Follow the river,” was all it said.

He nearly cursed, impatiently wishing the telegram contained more detail. _Follow the river_. What would he find by the river? Was Watson simply enjoying the quiet, or was he—?

Unable to finish the thought, he shoved the telegram into Mycroft’s hand and sprinted toward the water, the rising sun at his back. Mycroft would follow as he was able, but Holmes _had_ to reach Watson.

The river ran through a shallow ditch a hundred yards from the small platform where they had disembarked the special, and he nearly leaped down the steep bank to reach the water’s edge. Continuously scanning both banks, he hurried downstream, desperately hoping he was not too late. Had Watson decided to disappear into the country? Perhaps to avoid Lestrade finding him? He could not imagine Watson ever reaching the point of giving up, but if he had, his friend would not force Lestrade to find him like that.

A few hundred yards turned into a mile. Then two. He was fit enough for the run, but he was beginning to feel the effects when he spotted a prone form further down the bank.

No. _No!_

The terror that shot through him granted him a second wind, and he lengthened his stride, frantically trying to reach his friend. Watson lay propped against a rock, facing the sunrise now to Holmes’ right, and at first glance, he did not appear to be moving.

Holmes’ breath caught in his throat. He was too late. He had failed.

Then Watson inhaled deeply, apparently just waking, and Holmes’ breath returned in a rush. He had not thought his friend one to sleep on the banks of a river several hours’ ride from London, but at least he was alive. Holmes had not failed. He had arrived in time.

It would not do to surprise Watson too suddenly, and he slowed his frantic pace. He would call out when he got closer.

Watson sighed as Holmes strode forward, gingerly stretching before pulling himself off the ground, and the worry that Holmes had banished when Watson woke quickly revived, growing and changing from a fear that he would arrive too late to a fear that he was already too late, no matter that Watson still drew breath. Distance and the terrain had hidden just how thin his friend was. Watson was even thinner than he had been when they first met, when he was still recovering from injury and illness. He obviously had not been eating.

“Fine day for a walk,” Holmes called in greeting as Watson gained his feet, “though I am rather surprised to find you sleeping beside a stream just south of Scotland.”

What else could he say? _“You look dreadful, old chap. When did you last eat?”_ That would never do. Better to pretend that all was normal, that they were two old friends unexpectedly meeting far from home. That was true enough, he supposed, and Watson would be able to dictate where the conversation went from there.

He was not sure what he expected in response to such a greeting, but Watson’s utter lack of reaction was not it. Instead of turning towards Holmes’ voice, the returned greeting changing to utter surprise as he recognized Holmes, he merely gripped his cane and stared at the ground, blinking hard and completely ignoring his friend’s presence. After barely a moment, he turned away as if Holmes had not spoken, following the river downstream with a heavily limping shuffle.

Holmes frowned but let it pass. Perhaps Watson was not yet awake enough to speak; that had happened a few times over the years, when he woke early after patients left him exhausted. He was certainly exhausted now, as evidenced by his haggard expression and the dark bags beneath his eyes.

Watson would speak when he was ready, Holmes decided—probably when he looked at Holmes for the first time—and Holmes fell into step beside him, waiting for Watson to glance over.

But then he did glance over, only to keep walking as the barest hint of a frown appeared on his face. Holmes tried to deduce his friend’s thoughts, but for the first time since meeting the doctor over a decade before, Holmes had no idea what Watson was thinking. Watson’s expression was nearly a blank slate, devoid of all but a small fraction of his usual tells, and Holmes had no idea what to do. Should he speak again, or should he wait for Watson to acknowledge him?

He decided to wait, and for several long minutes, the only sounds between them were the crunching of rocks underfoot. Watson kept walking, glancing over occasionally but saying nothing. Eventually, Holmes realized they would reach town before Watson acknowledged him, and he broke the silence.

“I know you have seen me.”

Watson started at his voice, almost as if he had not expected Holmes to speak at all, and Holmes nearly huffed in frustration. His dearest friend, who he hadn’t seen in three years, ignored him from two feet away. Of course he was going to speak. Why would Watson expect otherwise?

He tried again, voicing a comment that should have at least provoked a smirk, but Watson continued ignoring him, so Holmes kept talking, saying whatever came to mind in a bid to get a response. Even screaming at him to go away would be better than ignoring his presence completely, and he eventually changed from nearly rambling his thoughts and observations to describing the last few days, then the last three years. If Watson was too angry with him for disappearing to acknowledge his existence, he would at least do so knowing everything that had happened.

* * *

It had been years since I had last watched the sunrise, and I watched in wonder as the sky turned from black to dark blue before lighting with multiple colors. For a few short minutes, I was able to ignore the ghost still pacing the opposite bank, enjoying the multitude of colors painting the eastern sky.

Reality came crashing in all too quickly, however, and I breathed a sigh as the colors faded. As much as I would rather spend the day at the water, I should probably see about a house and a job in town, and I pulled myself to my feet, ignoring the way my head spun with the movement. It would pass shortly.

As my vision cleared and the roaring in my ears subsided, both the ghost and his armchair vanished from the other bank, and a presence appeared beside me. I paid it no heed. I had yet to start talking to my hallucinations, and I would never be able to restart here if the locals found me talking to air. He would disappear again soon enough, perhaps going back to pacing the opposite bank.

My old friend walked beside me in silence for several minutes, always staying between me and the water, and I wondered how long he was going to walk with me. He rarely stayed for more than a few minutes.

“I know you have seen me,” he finally announced, several minutes after the normal five- or ten-minute stretch that usually limited his closer appearances.

I started, barely regaining my balance before I landed on the ground. He had never _spoken_ before, and even the regressions had not captured his voice so accurately. It pained me to hear him, to hear the dear friend I would never truly see again, and I said nothing as I fought to stay in the present.

“I actually thought you might hit me by this point,” he continued when I made no answer.

I did not react, not even bothering to roll my eyes. Why would I hit a hallucination? What good would it do? My fist would just go right through him. He wasn’t actually there, and I knew better to let him convince me he was. I had stopped falling for _that_ dream a long time ago. Why would I fall for the waking version?

“I was sorry to hear about Mary,” he told me, and I did not need to look up to know that the muted sympathy I remembered as his preferred method of condolence had appeared in his gaze. All the more-detailed dreams had it. “The mail was delayed, or I would have returned for the funeral.”

I continued walking, wondering why a previously silent hallucination now insisted on rambling in my ear. If I had wanted to listen to someone talk, I could have waited for Lestrade to get my note before leaving.

“You led us on quite a chase the last two days, trying to catch up after your untimely travel plans. What happened to the stations being there for a reason?”

The barest hint of a frown made it to my expression. I wished he would stop talking. I was well used to seeing him walking next to me, but to hear his voice so accurately was nearly tortuous. It would not be long before the memories I held at bay took over.

“You know, Watson, for someone who always insisted I could not go without fuel, you are looking a bit thin. You might eat a bit more, old chap.”

I stopped walking with a sigh, leaning heavily on my cane as I clenched the other fist. I would never be able to concentrate on my surroundings in town with my mind tying together so many memories. I would end up either turned out of town or on my way to Bedlam if I tried. Plus, if I entered a regression on the way, I would keep walking toward town until I either arrived, blinked out of the memory, or fell into the creek. If he was going to continue talking as he walked next to me, I would at least need to remove one hazard from my surroundings. The bank to my left was currently too high to climb, but the opposite bank was more gradual. I turned my gaze from the rocks in front of me toward the water, wondering if it was shallow enough for me to easily cross.

He immediately got in my way. “Ignore me all you want,” he said, “but you are much mistaken if you think I will let you near the water.”

If Holmes were really standing in front of me, such a suggestive comment would have resulted in a heavily sarcastic reply no matter my current mood, but I was far too empty to show a reaction where none was needed. I ignored both his words and his presence.

Deciding the creek was probably too deep, I retraced my steps back upstream as I looked for a place to climb the bank, and the voice resumed rambling in my ear, talking about a tail, France, engaging a special, and several other things. It had been many months since my imagination had created any story at all, and another mood might have seen me attentively copying the story down, planning how best to turn it into a publishable narrative.

As it was, however, I just wanted it to leave me alone. I had no interest in writing and hadn’t in months, and even if I did keep track of the tale, I had left pen and paper back in London.

The voice was rambling something about telegrams when I reached the spot where I had spent the night, and another familiar figure came out of the trees. I allowed a confused frown.

“Mycroft?” I said, faintly noticing the hallucination next to me give a start at my voice. “What are you doing here?”

Mycroft’s gaze looked past me, and I sighed, feeling like an idiot. Of course. Mycroft never left London. He was not here any more than Holmes was here, though why I had started hallucinating Holmes’ brother I had no idea. I just hoped they did not start arguing over my head.

I turned away as they stared at each other. I would give it a few hours before trying to reach town again, but my old injuries had stiffened overnight, turning my normal short stride into a limping shuffle. I would need a softer place to sit than the one I had used the previous evening.

“I came with Sherlock,” Mycroft answered my question a moment later, walking on my right while Holmes studied me intently from his place between me and the water.

Having already realized that, I made no answer, refusing to talk to a hallucination. If I could fall asleep on the bank again, would they be gone when I woke?

“You are not hallucinating, Doctor.”

_“What?”_ Holmes froze mid-step as a smirk tried to reach my mouth. Even so many years after last seeing them interact, I still remembered how, while Holmes was always several steps ahead of everyone else, Mycroft usually stayed a step or two in front of even my friend. If I had truly been in their company, Mycroft’s comment would have dissolved into a _discussion_ about Mycroft speaking Holmes’ thoughts aloud, with Mycroft returning that Holmes ought to be accustomed to it after so many years, and, anyway, Holmes needed an idea of what he did to the Yarders on an almost daily basis. Their arguing had always reminded me more of the playful bickering Harry and I had exchanged than any true disagreement—despite their claims of finding the other infuriating—and watching them talk had always amused me.

A memory came to mind, and in an instant, I stood again in the Stranger’s Room of the Diogenes, watching them deduce passersby and trying to follow their logic. I had never managed to deduce more than some basics on my own, but practice had eventually allowed me to trace some of their deductions, once pointed out. I had spent hours listening to Holmes deduce the crowds that conveniently passed our window, slowly putting the pieces together to, if not deduce it myself, at least know how _he_ had deduced it. I had been getting better before—

A hand gripped my arm, painfully snapping me out of the memory, and I started again—this time violently. None of the other hallucinations had ever _touched_ me, and I desperately tried to pull away, fighting to break free of whoever had sneaked up on me. I needed to run, get away, find somewhere _safe_ —

“Watson! Stop fighting me!”

The snapped command broke me out of my panic, and I quit struggling, breathing heavily as I leaned away from the hand still gripping my arm. My head spun again from the exertion, and I leaned heavily on my cane instead of relying on the hand to hold me upright. I knew it could not be my friend standing in front of me, a frown of worry etching his face, but I could not bring myself to care who it was. I cared only about getting away.

“Watson.”

I said nothing, scanning my surroundings as I planned my escape. The bank was still too high to climb, so I would have to follow the water. The closest town was downstream, I decided. I doubted I would be able to outrun whoever my mind had decided was Holmes, but I would not go down without a fight.

“Watson, look at me.” I did not move, still leaning away from the hand gripping me and waiting for my head to quit spinning so I could break free, and Holmes moved in front of my gaze. “I am not dead,” he said clearly, “and you are not hallucinating.”

“I should have gone after him sooner, Doctor,” Mycroft rumbled behind me. “I told him months ago to come home, but the messages did not make it through.”

I knew better than to believe the words. Holmes had died three years ago. There was no way he could be standing in front of me, and I looked around him as I tried to pull my arm free, hoping to leave behind both whoever was truly gripping me and the ghost using their form.

My attempt to break free failed pathetically, but before I could try again, the world turned on its end. The vertigo I had been ignoring strengthened, and darkness encroached on my vision. I had no time to fight it, no time to even try to stay awake. Simultaneous cries of alarm reached my ears, and I knew no more.


	4. Chapter 4

Holmes swallowed, gently supporting his limp friend to the ground. Watson had continued ignoring him on the slow walk first down, then back up the riverbank, not even voicing the pawky remark that Holmes’ blocking the creek should have engendered. Only when he spotted Mycroft had Watson finally spoken, and Holmes had started on hearing Watson’s confused question. Watson’s voice was _hollow_ , emptier than any voice Holmes had ever heard and obviously barely used. It was a dead voice, a voice that had given up all hope, all feeling, all reason for living. Holmes hated hearing such a voice come from his friend, and he had barely answered Mycroft’s silent questions as he studied the doctor. Something was not as it appeared. Watson should have reacted by now—whether that reaction was punching Holmes in the face or welcoming him with joy. The Watson he knew would not ignore him like this, not and still acknowledge his brother.

Mycroft’s comment had interrupted his thoughts just as all the pieces fell into place, and surprise, worry, and fear, among other things, had combined into one stunned word. He had tried again to gain Watson’s attention, tried to show him that Mycroft was correct, only to find that Watson’s eyes had glazed in the moments Holmes had fallen behind. Holmes had been forced to grab Watson’s arm to get a response, but even after snapping out of the ensuing panic, Watson had still tried to pull away, continuing to ignore Holmes and leaning heavily on his cane as he somehow managed to pale further.

Of all the reactions Holmes had imagined over the previous three years, Watson believing him a hallucination, panicking on contact, then fainting into his arms was not one. Perhaps Mycroft had been right. Perhaps it had not been the best idea to leave Watson behind, though Holmes had had little enough choice at the time. What should he have done differently?

Letting his friend use his lap as a pillow, Holmes loosened Watson’s collar as Mycroft dug for his flask.

“Does he have something else affecting him besides the obvious?” Holmes asked as he took the flask.

Mycroft hesitated, and Holmes looked up. He had expected a prompt “No.”

“Years ago,” Mycroft finally answered, “one of my first secretaries was a war veteran. We occasionally found him staring blankly, moving automatically, and unresponsive. He would remain so for five to thirty minutes before finally focusing on whoever spoke to him, though it took longer for him to be able to speak again. The one time I asked him what those were, he called them regressions, saying he relived old battles whenever something triggered a memory.”

Holmes glanced back and forth between his brother and his friend. “That is what Watson just had? A regression?”

Mycroft nodded as Holmes carefully dripped a bit of the brandy into Watson’s mouth. “He could not have copied Monroe more exactly.”

“Did the regressions make your secretary lose consciousness?”

“No,” Mycroft rumbled, studying where Watson still lay on the ground. “I imagine that was the exertion combining with malnourishment, as you already deduced.”

Holmes frowned, both that Watson would starve himself to the point of collapse and that Watson had yet to wake up.

“Give him a few minutes, Sherlock,” Mycroft said after a moment, stepping back to lean against a nearby rock. “Riston had no way of knowing when Watson last ate.”

His frown deepened, but Holmes carefully settled onto the riverbank, watching Watson’s face for the first sign of consciousness.

* * *

I registered the voice first.

“Watson?”

Strange, I thought. That sounded like Holmes. I tried to sink further into sleep, searching for the dream from which the voice had come.

“Open your eyes, Watson.”

The voice seemed to pull me _out_ of sleep instead of deeper into dreams, however, and I frowned. While it was nice not to start awake from a nightmare, I always enjoyed dreaming the more pleasant memories with either Holmes or Mary. Why couldn’t I sink back into blissful darkness? Anything had to be better than the empty reality.

“Come on, Watson. Open your eyes.”

Bits of memory floated to the surface, recalling travel and waking up on the riverbank.

“Watson?”

Memory returned in a rush just as I realized my pillow was _moving_ , and I sat up quickly, fighting to put some distance between myself and the voice talking to me from above my head. Holmes was dead. I should _not_ be hearing his voice next to a creek near the Scotland border. Who was it that was truly talking to me?

I didn’t know, and I was not entirely certain I wanted to find out.

“Watson, wait!”

My cane lay on the rocks out of reach, and I pulled myself into a crawl, awkwardly pushing myself away from the hand trying to grab my good shoulder.

“Watson!”

Feet appeared in my path, and I found myself trapped between Mycroft and Holmes. I placed my back against a large rock, unable to go any further. Either I was dreaming, or two ruffians had cornered me as retribution for something Holmes had done, and I raised an arm, reflexively protecting my head as I waited for the blows to fall.

“We will not harm you,” Holmes said, frowning.

I watched them, slowly lowering my arm, but neither moved any closer. A dream, then. I had no way to wake myself up, but at least a dream would not leave me injured and bleeding in a ditch. A dream had to end at some point, as well, and I resolved myself to wait it out.

“If I had realized you thought me a hallucination, Watson,” Holmes continued, “I would have touched you much sooner.”

I let my focus wander, planning what I would do once I broke out of this most recent dream. I was probably asleep on the bank where I had woken shortly after midnight, and I would never be able to restart in the nearby town after this. I decided I would cross the creek and make my way north. Surely some village close by would have an ageing doctor grateful for a second doctor to ease the load. All I had to do was find him.

Holmes continued talking, pointing out that hallucinations could not touch me and trying to use that to convince me that he was real, alive. I ignored him. Too many times, I had seen him, Mary, or both as they tried to convince me that the dream was real, that they were truly there and not dead, and I knew better than to believe him. I always woke up the moment I did, more alone than I had been before, and I had no reason to think this was anything other than a new variation. It would end on its own eventually.

I hated these dreams, and I grew more and more distant the longer he talked. The dream would give way to a memory soon, and I found myself almost welcoming it. Anything to end the too-real vision of my dearest friend standing in front of me, his brother off to one side.

“Doctor—”

Whatever Mycroft started to say faded behind the memory of another day, another year, when a case denouement gone wrong had sent us fleeing to Mycroft’s flat. His guards had taken care of the men pursuing us, and Holmes had gotten a surprise lesson in stitching up a wound. I welcomed the memory, fully embracing it because it would end the previous vision. Once it changed, the next dream or hallucination had never picked up exactly where a previous one had left off.

“Watson! Snap out of it, Watson!”

I blinked the memory away and nearly groaned as familiar steel-grey eyes stared into my own. Of course, this day of other firsts would also include the first hallucination that resumed after a break. Irritation shot through me, and I finally broke my own rule to never talk to a hallucination.

“Stop haunting me!” I snapped, ignoring Mycroft for the moment. “I get it. It’s my fault you’re dead, but if you won’t leave me alone, then take me with you!”

“I did not know I was dead,” Mycroft rumbled.

Holmes brushed off the comment with a flick of his hand, slowly moving to sit next to me as I scowled at him. A hand hesitantly landed on my shoulder, and I flinched, hating that I had no idea _who_ was touching me.

“I am not dead,” he told me quietly, frowning at the way I still flinched away from him. “I…should have told you, found a way for you and Mary to come with me. I see that now, and I am sorry I did not then. I thought I was doing it to keep you safe.”

I made no answer, watching him warily, and he studied me, a frown at my hesitance evident on his face.

“You are not dreaming, Watson,” he told me. “How do I prove to you I am real?”

I stared, beyond surprised at yet another first. None of the visions had ever included _that_ question—even the ones where I denied their claims and waited to wake up. The various attempts to convince me were what I had started using as confirmation that I was locked in yet another dream or hallucination.

When I combined that with the many other firsts… _could_ this be real?

“Doctor?”

I glanced up. Mycroft still stood to my right, now leaning against another portion of the same large boulder I had placed to my back.

“I am not dead, Doctor, and you never believed I was.” He leaned out, tapping my foot with the walking stick in his hand. “You are not hallucinating, nor are you dreaming. Something stopped the mail going through, otherwise he would have returned long ago.”

I stared at him for a long moment, absorbing that. Mycroft had _left_ London, and Holmes was truly sitting next to me?

Holmes shifted, and I jerked my gaze back to him, staring in wonder that one I had thought dead for so long sat next to me, waiting for me to find my words.

“Watson?” he finally asked when I remained silent for too long. “Are you about to hit me?”

I swallowed, shaking my head in answer as I fought to speak.

“You—” My voice broke pathetically, betraying the hope I dared not feel, and I cleared my throat before trying again. “You are really here?”

He nodded, gently squeezing the shoulder he still held, and when I didn’t wake up, I felt myself smile for the first time in a long, long time.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2

Twenty minutes later found us slowly walking along the water’s edge, Holmes between me and the creek and Mycroft on my other side.

I could feel Holmes’ gaze on me, seeing everything about me in that way I used to almost enjoy. Now, however, it just made me try to raise my walls higher. I had shown enough weakness in the last few minutes; if this was real, he certainly did not need to see any more.

I doubt I hid all of it, but he said nothing, and I had nothing _to_ say. My words had died long ago, and even the chance at having him back had not revived them—not yet. I mostly stared at my feet, doing my best not to stumble on the uneven ground despite the way Holmes had taken my arm in his.

Just because I had stopped fighting it did not mean I fully believed this was real; it just meant I had decided to give it one more try, and I stayed alert, now trying to stay here instead of trying to break the hallucination. I had been torn between wanting the hallucinations to stop and wanting him to stay, hallucination or no, and now I had made my choice. I wanted him to stay, hallucination or no, and I did not care what would happen if—when?—this fell apart yet again. Why would I? I could be honest enough with myself to know I would have disappeared into the country in a matter of days. It made no difference to me whether that was today or next week. If I could have one more day with Holmes, I would take it.

I had nothing left to lose.

“Why did you come here?”

Holmes’ quiet question broke the silence, and I jerked out of my thoughts to look at him, deciding how I wanted to reply.

“It was more _away_ from London than it was _to_ anywhere,” I answered eventually, leaning on him perhaps more firmly than I needed. The touch was an anchor, a way to keep myself here, in this moment.

“Then why did you jump from a moving train?”

I halted in place, forcing him to stop next to me as I stared at him. I vaguely remembered him mentioning something about traveling from France to catch up with me. How would he know that if he had told me the truth?

“How long have you been following me?” I asked quietly, warily.

“The Yard has been following you for over a month,” was his prompt—and honest—answer, “but Mycroft replaced their guard with his own about a week ago. He left a trail of telegrams for us after we left France.”

I hesitated briefly but nodded, accepting that, and a thought occurred to me.

“How long did it take him to find me again?” I asked, forcing a smirk as I remembered the commotion when I had left my train.

A true smile twitched his mouth, and I tried not to stare, still amazed that _Holmes_ walked next to me. If this _was_ a dream, it was more detailed than all but a few others I had had.

“He caught up as you walked toward the river,” Mycroft answered when Holmes made no reply.

I fell silent for a long moment as we continued walking, absorbing that and deciding how I wanted to respond. “I wanted a small town,” I finally said shortly, “and saw no reason to wait for a station when engine problems forced the train to a crawl.”

He did not answer immediately, and there was another long beat of silence. “You used to hate small towns,” he finally noted. “What changed?”

“Too many people know me in London,” I said simply, unwilling to voice the more detailed reasons—that cities were more haunted than small towns and, while it made no difference to me if a regression carried me into the next life, I would not force Lestrade to find me like that.

He frowned at the non-answer but let it drop, and silence descended again, broken only by the sounds of the water and the rocks under our feet.

We followed the creek downstream, and I tried to hide how frequently I glanced at him. I desperately hoped this was real, that he was truly walking next to me, but if this _was_ an extremely detailed dream, he would vanish as soon as I let my guard down. As soon as I fell asleep, relaxed, or otherwise let him out of my sight, he would be gone again, just another breath on the wind, and the last pieces of me would go with him.

I knew what would happen next. The hope beginning to spark despite my best efforts clearly showed what that would do to me. I would put it off for as long as possible.

“Where are we going?” Holmes asked after several minutes.

I shrugged. “When I got off the train, I intended to find a job and a place to live in the next town.”

“And now?” Holmes asked when I did not continue.

I swallowed and used the excuse of a large rock to lean against him briefly, trying to reassure myself that this was real, that he was no dream.

It didn’t work—not fully—but I would go along with it for as long as it lasted.

“Are…you returning to London?” I asked quietly.

“Mrs. Hudson will probably become hysterical on seeing me,” he answered wryly. “You will need to help calm her down.”

I nearly forced the expected smirk before I realized he had not truly answered me, and I fell silent, watching my feet as I tried to decide if that had been a non-answer indicating he was not going to London or simply his own brand of humor.

“Watson.” His hand squeezed my arm, and he continued when I looked up. “You know how much I hate being outside my city. Will you move back to Baker Street?”

“Only if you take the downstairs bedroom,” I answered.

Relief shone in his gaze, and he quirked a grin. “Ask one of your shadows if the town has a way to reach the station, Mycroft,” he said, his gaze never leaving mine. “We have a train to catch.”

* * *

Mycroft signaled to one of the men Holmes had noticed following them, and Watson glanced over as the man Holmes faintly remembered being new to Mycroft’s guard three years before stepped closer. Surprise flashed through Watson’s gaze almost too quickly for Holmes to spot.

“You—”

Watson broke off nearly mid-word, swallowing hard as his expression quickly shuttered again.

Holmes frowned, wondering what was wrong, but Watson said nothing else, merely watching as Riston confirmed that the nearest town had a cart for hire to reach the station. The town was just over the rise, and they continued walking as Riston disappeared again.

“What is it?” Holmes asked before Watson could sink too far into his thoughts.

“He is the one that has been following me,” was Watson’s answer, his gaze on his feet to avoid eye contact.

Holmes nodded. “What about it?”

“He…probably saved my life,” Watson admitted quietly, and Holmes reflexively gripped Watson’s arm as he hesitantly continued. “Thrice, I have woken near the river. I did not think about it at the time, but he was only a few feet away from me after the last two. It makes more sense that he broke me out of the memory than that I snapped out of it on my own.”

There was more to those events than Watson was voicing, Holmes knew, but he decided not to push the issue. He glanced back instead, both looking toward where Riston had disappeared and conveying his thoughts to Mycroft. He owed Riston more than he could ever pay.

A passing cart cut off further conversation, and they caught a ride the rest of the way into town. Watson fell silent despite Holmes’ attempts otherwise, refusing to answer any questions where the stranger could hear, and Holmes eventually gave up. There would be plenty of time to talk on the way back to London.

It was a matter of minutes to arrange for a cart they could use to reach the station, but one would not be free for their use for an hour or so, given that someone would have to ride with them to return the cart. A small restaurant across the street caught Holmes’ eye.

“You must be just as hungry as I am,” he said, steering his friend toward the building. “Do you even remember the last time you ate?”

Watson hesitated but shook his head, and Holmes smothered a frown as he opened the door. It would do no good to voice his worry, but that had been more than a response to his question. The hesitation also applied the negative to being hungry.

“Then I believe it is _my_ turn to tell _you_ to eat,” he answered, allowing a faint smirk to show.

Watson had argued many times over the years that Holmes could not think without fuel, and while Holmes had never anticipated having to say such a thing to _Watson,_ he hoped the reference would elicit at least a small version of the slow grin he had always loved evoking.

Watson made no reply, however, using the excuse of being led to a table in the corner to avoid Holmes’ gaze, and the comment Holmes had intended to be amusing led to a tense silence.

Watson immediately claimed the seat with his back to the wall, and Holmes studied his friend, noting the signs that Watson still fought just to stay in the present as his friend leaned back in his chair. Watson had flinched when the cook had dropped a pan in the kitchen, and his gaze continuously flicked between the room in general and Holmes himself. He was still far too quiet, and when he did speak, his voice had lost very little of the emptiness Holmes had noticed by the river. He was entirely too thin and seemed to have little interest in food despite being weak with malnutrition. He ordered the smallest thing on the menu but ate less than half, spending most of the time pushing the food around his plate instead of eating it, and he barely smothered a frown when Mycroft suggested afters. Holmes let everything pass without comment.

A spark had flickered to life in Watson’s previously dead gaze, and in that moment, that was all that mattered.


	6. Chapter 6

The cart took us to Carlisle, where Mycroft insisted on engaging a special instead of waiting for the next train, and I settled into a seat as we pulled away from the station. Of all the things I had been expecting to do today, returning to London in Holmes’ company was not one of them, and I ignored my discomfort at eating so much as I tried to hide that I stared at where he sat across from me, almost afraid to blink. How long could a dream last? When could I be sure that this was real, that he wouldn’t disappear as soon as I let my guard down?

“What is it?” he finally asked after several minutes.

I smothered a start at his question, realizing I had not hidden my gaze as I thought I had, and just as quickly frowned. What did I want to ask?

Many questions came to mind, from what had happened in Switzerland to how he had come to be so far north of London and everything in between, and I hesitated before picking the earliest one. We may as well start at the beginning, as Holmes had told so many of his clients over the years.

“How did you survive the fall?”

Confusion crossed Holmes’ gaze, and he leaned forward in his seat.

“Did you hear anything I told you as we walked by the river?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it, allowing my own confusion to show. What did that have to do with my question?

Holmes launched into the same story he had told me while walking between me and the water, when I had been ignoring him as a hallucination, and this time I listened, using the story to push all other thoughts aside. A more detailed rendition than the quick description he had given by the water, hours passed as he walked me through everything from what had really happened at the falls to the long journey from France, following a trail of telegrams leading to a creek bed miles from the Scotland border. We neared the London station when he finally finished.

I made no answer for a long moment, absorbing everything he had told me. His story had been detailed—much more detailed than I would have expected, coming from him—and I had only one question.

“Why did you not tell me the truth? I would not have given you away.”

His gaze softened. “I know that,” he answered quickly, then hesitated. “Moriarty…told Moran to target you if I survived,” he finally answered, stumbling slightly over the words as his reddening ears gave away his discomfort. “I could not protect you with you living away from Baker Street, and…I could not ask you to choose between Mary and me. If you had known I was alive, Moran would have captured Mary to get you, and captured you to get me. The only way I could ensure he left you both alone was to make you believe I was dead.”

“We would have come with you,” I protested. “You knew that.”

“You would have had to leave everything behind and put Mary in danger to go into hiding with me.” He shook his head. “I could not ask you to do that.”

“So you faked your death instead,” I replied, more bitterly than I intended as the walls I had carefully cultivated over the last few months lowered slightly, “leaving me with a burden of guilt for causing it. You know Mary’s childhood enough to know she would have thrived, and I think I would rather have had the danger.” _At least in battle, I do not feel half-dead_.

Guilt flashed through his eyes as he read the unspoken sentence in mine, and he glanced down as we pulled into the station.

“Holmes?” I said, breaking the momentary silence. He looked back up at me. “Don’t leave me behind again.” _Don’t leave me alone again._

He nodded agreement, the understanding in his eyes confirming he had heard what I did not say, but the train came to a stop before he could decide on a response.

* * *

_…leaving me with a burden of guilt for causing it_.

Holmes had barely smothered a wince at those words, and they rang through his mind as he helped Watson to his feet. He had known Watson would take his death hard, but the bitterness, the emptiness that rang through those words almost physically hurt him to hear. The simple fact that Watson had admitted to the three instances he had nearly made it to the river showed how far Watson had fallen in the months since Mary’s death, and Holmes had noticed the way Watson had stared during Holmes’ story. Not only was he still fighting to stay in the present, but he still thought this might be another dream.

Holmes would not be able to leave him alone for a moment.

With Holmes accommodating Watson’s much slower pace, Mycroft exited the train several steps ahead of them, and a familiar voice rang out as Holmes reached the platform.

“Mr. Holmes!”

Mycroft glanced up from the telegrams one of his guards had handed him as Lestrade hurried across the platform, apparently oblivious to where Holmes steadied Watson on the steps from the train car. Holmes allowed a twitched grin, glad to see that at least one thing had stayed the same over the last three years.

“Did you find him?” Lestrade asked, nearly breathless.

Mycroft gestured toward them, and Holmes saw the barest hint of a smirk appear on Watson’s face.

“They convinced me to stay in London.”

Lestrade spun on hearing Watson’s quiet comment, and the unmitigated relief that appeared in the inspector’s gaze announced how closely his fears had matched the ones that had plagued Holmes over the long journey from France. Lestrade had clearly not expected Watson to return, and he opened his mouth to respond when his gaze landed on Holmes.

Pure shock replaced the relief, and he froze, staring at Holmes for a long moment before he paled. Holmes frowned, gesturing Mycroft to move closer.

“Are you going to faint?” Watson asked, voicing the question Holmes would not.

Lestrade swallowed, and his color returned as he shook his head. A smile slowly appeared.

“It took you long enough to return, Mr. Holmes,” he finally said. “I told you not to get lost.”

Holmes smothered a smirk, but a thought crossed Lestrade’s face before Holmes could reply. Lestrade’s grin widened, and Watson’s smirk changed into more of a small grin.

“Gregson owes you money now, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, he does,” was the cheerful answer, “and he won’t know whether he hates it or loves it.”

Amusement coursed through him only to quickly fade under another question. Why had Watson fallen so far if Lestrade thought Holmes might be alive?

“You made a bet that I had not died?” he confirmed.

Lestrade huffed a laugh. “You would not fall off a waterfall. It’s not dramatic enough.”

Holmes’ smirk broke free, and Lestrade continued, still grinning, still staring at Holmes in amazement. “We made the bet when the news was still rumor. I forgot about it shortly after, and Gregson probably did, too.”

Holmes nodded. That explained it. Lestrade was just taking advantage of a bet made in jest.

Watson broke the ensuing silence. “I suppose I will have to tell my agent I am back in London,” Watson said wryly. “I did not even make it to the border.”

Lestrade tore his gaze from Holmes to look at Watson. “If you had waited for me to get your message instead of sending it as the train left the station,” he pointed out, again displaying the worry that had washed over him on receiving that telegram, “you might not have made it out of town at all, but there is no need to contact your agent.”

Watson raised an eyebrow, silently asking why not.

“I did not make it to the office before Mr. Holmes telegrammed me that he was trying to catch up to you,” he answered with a shrug. “Your agent doesn’t know you left.”

Watson seemed to relax, and Holmes wondered why he did not want to speak to his agent, but Mycroft spoke up before he could decide how to ask.

“I need to get back to Whitehall,” he announced, the telegrams he had been perusing now safely stored in a pocket. “Apparently, nobody does any work when I am not there, and several matters have been backing up for days.”

Holmes smirked at the old grumble. Mycroft had been complaining for years that no one did anything without him.

“I will stop by tomorrow,” Holmes confirmed in farewell.

Mycroft’s gaze flicked to Watson in clear warning, and Holmes nodded acknowledgement. He would not leave Watson alone, even to complete the paperwork needed to tie up the few things he had done for his brother over the last few years and return to life.

“Mycroft?”

Watson’s voice stopped Mycroft’s turn to leave, and he glanced at where the doctor still leaned rather heavily on Holmes’ arm.

“Thank you,” Watson said simply.

The double meaning behind those words nearly slammed into Holmes, and he studied his friend.

Part of it was an honest thanks—for everything from blocking the sale of his practice to bringing Holmes back before something irreversible happened. It was the gratitude Watson had never been afraid to voice, the inherent politeness that had always been a part of him, and hearing it after so many years brought a sense of homecoming.

The other part of it, however, was a ‘just in case.’ “Just in case this is a dream,” it said, “I want to thank you while I can, because I will not see you again, and thanking you in a dream is better than not thanking you at all.’

Mycroft had caught the double meaning as well, but he said nothing, not even glancing at Holmes as he nodded an acknowledgement before turning to leave. There was no need for eye contact to convey such a warning.

Part of it was not an expression of gratitude. It was a farewell.

“What is it?” Watson asked.

Holmes blinked, realizing he was staring as he tried to deduce how much of the words were honest thanks.

“To Baker Street?” he asked instead of answering, refusing to announce how much that farewell terrified him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving to my American readers :)


	7. Chapter 7

“Watson!”

I blinked, steel-grey eyes slowly coming into focus, and a sigh escaped. Where was I this time? And when?

“Watson, are you with me?”

I made no answer, checking my surroundings as I always did after a memory took over my awareness. I sat in my old chair at Baker Street, a steaming cup of tea on the table to my right. The room looked just as it had that last day, so many years before, and I glanced at the desk across the room, trying to decide what day had trapped me.

“Watson?”

I turned my gaze to where Holmes knelt in front of me, a frown of worry on his face. He looked more careworn than I remembered, but not much different than he had in Switzerland. I must be remembering a visit during my marriage.

“What’s the case?” I asked, deciding that was the safest question. There had been very few visits in the later years _not_ tied to a case, and I had found out long ago that it was better to follow the script as closely as possible during these waking dreams.

His frown deepened, and the _wrongness_ of my question washed over me. I should not have said that, but what should I have said? I returned my gaze to the room, searching for a reference.

“Do you know where you are?”

I nodded decisively. “Of course.” A letter pinned to the mantle caught my attention, and I focused on it, trying to make out the date on the envelope.

“Do you know _when_ you are?”

I hesitated, not quite able to decipher the numbers. What would happen if I answered truthfully? The last time I had deviated from a script, the almost pleasant memory had quickly changed to a horrific nightmare, but I had no idea which answer was the correct one.

“It is April 1894,” he told me quietly, still studying me intently, “and this is real.”

1894? I thought. But Holmes died in ’91. How could this be real?

“Watson, remember the train ride back to London?”

An image came to mind of Holmes and Mycroft riding across from me. Mycroft had engaged the special to get us back to London quicker than the train schedule could travel, and Holmes had been describing the years after faking his death.

I jerked my gaze back to where Holmes still knelt in front of me. We had arrived at Baker Street perhaps an hour before, and an oblique reference Holmes had made to a previous holiday had briefly recalled that holiday from the past, inserting it into the continuing dream I dared to hope was no dream at all. Several other memories had already returned me to this dream, and, while its reoccurrence said there was a decent chance that this was real, it was also possible I had wandered into the creek during the first one and this was my mind’s idea of my life flashing before my eyes just before I died.

I could not claim to care if I had. It certainly made no difference to the moment.

“Say something, Watson,” he said when my eyes met his.

I forced a smile, reaching over to grab the tea steaming next to me. “What were we doing?”

He studied me, probably deducing my thoughts despite my attempts to hide them, but only answered, “You were about to tell me I should have known Mrs. Hudson would go into hysterics on sighting me.”

Right. I remembered that.

“What else should the ‘great detective’ expect when he picks the lock to walk into his old flat three years after his funeral?” I changed the smile into a smirk. “You admitted as much on the walk to town. You are lucky she did not hit you with that frying pan.”

He huffed in feigned irritation, standing to move to his own chair though his gaze never left off studying me. “What would you have me do, knock on the door? Please.”

My smirk became a touch more genuine. “That is what most people would do.”

“Since when am I ‘most people?’” he shot back, snaking a hand up to grab his pipe.

I shrugged, more focused on the tobacco he lit in his pipe than on what I should respond to such a comment. If this was real, the three-year-old tobacco he had just grabbed would be quite stale.

A cloud of smoke rose a moment later, and he coughed, waving the miasma aside as I felt my smirk turn into a true grin. He should have expected the tobacco to be stale, but the result finally convinced me that this was not just another dream. Before Switzerland, he had never allowed his tobacco to go stale—nor _would_ he have. He truly _had_ returned, and I relaxed into my chair, grateful beyond words to have my dearest friend back.

“Here,” I said, reaching for my case. I did not have fresh pipe tobacco for him even at my empty house, but I offered him a cigarette from the case in my pocket, trying to hide the fatigue that grew steadily stronger as I relaxed.

His gaze lit on the case, following it back to its place in my jacket. I had known he would recognize the case he had left at the falls. “You always keep it with you?”

I nodded, recalling the day I had given it to him, and silence fell as I tried not to sink into the past yet again.

* * *

Watson ran a finger over a sharp ridge on his teacup, using it as a focus, and Holmes leaned back in his chair as he tried to decide if he should help Watson stay awake or tell him to take the settee. The stale tobacco had worked as excellent proof that this was real, but Watson’s exhaustion had only grown more evident as he relaxed. The bags under his eyes had somehow darkened, and he fought to stay alert as silence fell over the sitting room.

“Quit staring at me, Holmes,” Watson said after a moment. “I am just tired.” He affected a smile, adding, “A lot has happened in the last few hours. It will take me a while to adjust.”

“He knows that, dearie,” Mrs. Hudson said from the doorway, carrying a tray into the room. Watson started minutely, apparently not hearing her footsteps on the stairs, but turned to look at her, expression blank, as she continued, “but that doesn’t mean he will let you out of his sight for a while, just as I doubt you will let him out of yours.”

A faint smirk appeared at her words, but Watson made no immediate reply, watching as she laid out the light meal they had requested after calming her down.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” he finally said when she finished, slowly pulling himself to his feet but aiming for the pot of tea.

Smiling in answer, she waited until he turned his back to pin Holmes with a pointed look, and he nodded. He would make sure Watson ate something.

As with Lestrade, she had needed no words for Holmes to see how much she worried about Watson. The distressed looks she had given him, not to mention her surprise at his appearance, said everything for her. Holmes doubted it had been more than a few weeks since she had last seen his friend, but her reaction on sighting him had announced how much he had changed in that time.

Holmes noticed her distractedly glance at Watson once more, but she said nothing as she went back downstairs, and Holmes set the cigarette aside, joining Watson at the table to make a pointed show of spearing a piece of meat with his fork. He raised an eyebrow at his friend, clearly asking if he planned to eat, and smothered a pleased grin when Watson rolled his eyes but speared his own piece of meat, finishing it in a few bites on the way back to the fireplace. Holmes would have preferred he eat more than a single piece, but he let it drop. He could not claim to be the best example when it came to meals, and at least Watson was eating.

Watson sank back into his chair, and Holmes began moving about the room, refamiliarizing himself with where everything was. He could feel Watson watching him from his seat, following every movement as if still worried Holmes would disappear as soon as he dropped his guard, and Holmes tried to hide his unease, searching for a way to help.

“Now who is the one staring?” he finally asked.

Watson smirked, but he refused to relax completely, his gaze locked on where Holmes dug through his desk. He still worried it was all a dream, and as Mrs. Hudson had said, just because he had allowed himself to believe that Holmes was truly there, that this was real, did not mean he was going to let Holmes out of his sight for a moment.

But that should not include sleeping with Holmes in the same room.

Holmes gestured toward the settee with a smirk of his own, watching to make sure Watson understood his promise. “Get some sleep. I will avoid the chemistry set.”

Watson stared at him for only a moment before realizing what he was truly saying, and something resembling a laugh bubbled out in response. Relief bloomed in Holmes at the sound, but he tried not to show it as Watson moved to the settee, pulling a rug over himself though his eyes remained open. He watched Holmes for a few minutes longer, faintly smirking each time Holmes glanced towards him, but fatigue eventually overcame wariness. Holmes checked on him again to find him sound asleep.

Holmes rummaged through his desk for a moment longer before picking an index off his shelf and settling into his chair, watching his friend more than he read. Watson obviously had not been sleeping well, and nightmares were the most likely cause. Holmes could not undo what had already happened, but he could wake his friend at the first sign of trouble.

He also did not know if Watson _had_ been sleepwalking. He would not risk his friend waking alone.

The minutes passed peacefully. It could have been any quiet afternoon in Baker Street, if not for the changes in his friend, and Holmes enjoyed the easy silence after so many years of constant alertness. It was good to be home.

He turned a few pages, still more focused on Watson though he slowly updated each entry. The doctor shifted in his sleep, readjusting as he always did. Mrs. Hudson left to run a few errands. Crowds passed outside.

Watson slept peacefully, and Holmes forced himself not to stare. He turned his focus to his work, still glancing up frequently, and thirty minutes passed. Then an hour.

Watson grew restless, and Holmes looked up from his book. His friend calmed again a moment later, however, and Holmes turned back to the entry on Harold Arthur, reminding himself of everything he had once known about the small arms smuggler and adding a small piece he remembered reading during his travels. He had crossed paths with Arthur once before, but a newspaper Mycroft had sent the previous winter had suggested Arthur had increased his activity. Lestrade was probably beginning to note the smuggler’s movement, and, knowing the inspector, he would eventually ask Holmes to help.

A change drew his attention just as he finished updating the entry, and he glanced around the quiet room. Crowds still passed on the street. Mrs. Hudson had not yet returned. Watson still lay quietly on the settee. What had changed? Something important was missing.

The realization hit him with the force of a locomotive. The room was more than quiet. It was _silent._

His attention shot over to focus on his friend. Watson’s chest no longer rose and fell with shallow breaths, and pure terror shot through Holmes for the second time in as many days.

“Watson!”

There was no response, and the index hit the floor as Holmes lunged to grab his friend by the shoulders.

“WATSON!!”


	8. Chapter 8

A wave washed over me, and I fought my way back to the surface, desperate for breath. The shore glimmered barely a hundred yards away, but I was beginning to think I would not reach it.

I was tiring.

I had blinked open my eyes in the middle of the ocean, snapping out of a dream that Holmes had returned to find that the dream had been more like a regression, and I had wandered. I had no idea how I had gotten myself so far from shore, but it hardly mattered now. My shoulder wound had taken my ability to swim, and there was no one in sight. I was going to drown.

Even worse, I was going to be conscious until I did so. I would much rather have never woken.

Another wave swept over my head, and I swallowed more water even as I fought my way to the surface. I truly did not care if I lived or died, but I could not force myself to inhale water. I knew how painful that would be, and I would much rather pass out first.

Until I did so, however, I also could not deny the instinct to fight for my life.

My head broke the surface once more, and I managed to keep my face above water just long enough to gasp before I finally went under for the last time.

I forced myself to hold my breath, slowly sinking beneath the waves as I hoped to pass out before I inhaled again. The clear water let the sun shine through brightly, and I turned my gaze skyward. The sunlight on the waves—and the bubbles floating to the surface—would be the last thing I saw.

I began to feel the need for air, but I did not inhale. Another few seconds, and I would simply never wake up. I could make myself wait another few seconds. Would it hurt to inhale water, even unconscious?

I did not believe so. I had nearly drowned once before, and it had only hurt later—after Holmes had pulled me out.

Holmes. I would see you soon, my friend, and Mary, too. I looked forward to it. There was nothing left for me here.

My vision began to darken, and I let my eyes drift closed. It would not be long, now.

“WATSON!!”

My eyes shot open, and the first thing I registered was that someone was frantically shaking me.

“Wake up, Watson!”

The second thing I registered was a desperate need for air, but I denied it. I was underwater…wasn’t I?

“Confound it, Watson. Breathe!”

The sitting room came into focus, Holmes’ intensely worried face in front of me. He shook me harder.

“Watson!”

I was _not_ underwater, and I gasped, nearly wheezing in my haste to inhale. Holmes finally stopped shaking me, pulling me to a sitting position as I tried to catch my breath instead of hyperventilate, and I gripped whatever was in my hand, using the touch to assure myself that this was not another dream. For the first time in weeks, the touch of the water in my dream had felt different from the touch of the cushion beneath me, and I latched onto the difference. The contrast meant that this was real, that Holmes had truly returned, that I had a reason to continue living.

To do that, I needed to breathe, and I ignored the way my head swam to focus on steadily inhaling and exhaling.

My breaths finally deepened and started to slow, and I eventually realized Holmes gripped my shoulder, staring at me intently as the vertigo cleared.

“What in blazes were you _dreaming?”_ he asked when I had calmed enough to focus on my surroundings.

I fought to speak. “D-drowning,” I answered after a moment, my voice not wanting to work after such an intense nightmare. My gaze flicked around the room, marking various things that had changed in the last couple of hours to double check that this was the present. “I was…in the ocean,” I continued, not paying complete attention to what I said as I focused more on catching my breath and getting my bearings. Everything so far had matched, and I was grateful. “The sitting room was the regression, and I woke a hundred yards from shore, perhaps a mile from where I spent the night. I refused to inhale water when I went under—better to pass out first. Less painful.”

He said nothing for a moment, and I realized I had a white-knuckle grip on his hand, not a cushion.

“Sorry.”

I tried to let go, but he merely gripped my hand in return, letting me use him as an anchor, though he still stared at me intently. I ignored it at first, more concerned with catching my breath, but I finally spoke again when he continued staring.

“What is it?”

He shook his head, refusing to answer, and only then did I realize what I had said—and what he had deduced from it. I felt my face warm, and I hunted for words, trying to decide how I could undo the implication I had not meant for him to know.

“How do I prove to you I am real?” he asked again before I could find my words. “How do I prove to you that _this_ is real?” He gestured, encompassing Baker Street, his return, and everything else.

I opened my mouth, hesitated, and closed it again. How _could_ he prove it? I had finally believed him shortly before falling asleep, but a single dream had rendered all of it a lie. I probably would have woken on my own eventually, as I doubted my determination to hold my breath would have lasted after I lost consciousness, but I had genuinely expected not to wake up. I had stopped breathing almost long enough to go into hypoxia because of a _dream_.

I had so lost the ability to tell dream from reality that whatever dream in which I found myself _became_ my reality.

“I…don’t know,” I answered after a long moment, and for the first time since I had met him, he made no attempt to hide the terror he had felt on seeing me stop breathing.

“There must be _something,”_ he insisted, and I wondered if I imagined the hint of pleading that leaked into the words.

I hesitated again, thinking. Was there anything?

I remembered the first thing I had done on waking, and I looked around the room.

“Move something,” I blurted. “Anything. Put something where it never was before.”

He raised an eyebrow, wondering how that would prove anything.

“The first thing I do when I find myself in a memory,” I explained, “is check my surroundings. A date on a letter. A lamp out of place.” I gestured toward the chemistry table. “Even what experiment you have active can sometimes give me an exact date to the memory, and I know what script to follow. If you change something now that you never changed then…”

I let my voice trail off, but he finished the sentence, “It will make you realize this is not a dream.” He stood, searching for something to move. “But how will that help while you are in the dream?”

I had no idea. “Come back to that in a moment.” He reached to move a picture to the other end table. “1887.”

He stilled, glancing questioningly between where I still sat and the picture he held in his hand.

“If that picture is not on that end table,” I explained, “it is before 1887. You placed it there as a joke when I teased you about enjoying a detective series he helped author.”

He frowned but set the picture aside to look around again, quickly spotting something in the clutter on the mantle.

“1882.” He changed direction. “’89. ‘85. Now you are just testing me.”

He smirked, replacing the trinket his first royal client had given us and voicing a question I had expected him to deduce on his own.

“Why do you know specific dates?”

Silence answered him for a long moment as I decided what I wanted to admit. “I had to,” I finally replied. “I am fully aware in every dream, and if I do not follow the script in the memories, they quickly become nightmares.”

“That is why you asked what the case was earlier.”

I nodded. “Very little in this room has changed since that last day, and I decided I was dreaming a visit during my marriage. Most of those were case related.”

Muted sympathy appeared in his gaze, but he turned back to the room. “What does not have a year assigned to it?”

I studied the room, slowly identifying a handful of things. “The bookshelf,” I finally answered, “that chair, and…the chemistry set itself.”

I knew he would never move or change his chemistry set, but he swapped the chair I referenced with another on the other side of the room before walking to the shelf and studying the titles. “What would you notice?”

What could we change? It needed to be something noticeable but not inconvenient. “Why not switch the shelves? Move one down and one up?”

He hated moving his reference materials around, but he never hesitated, quickly doing as I suggested. I nodded to the questioning look he sent when he finished. I would be able to see that from anywhere in the room.

“What else?” he asked, pointedly glancing toward the stairs.

I shook my head. “My room already looks different, and I doubt I would fall asleep in yours.”

A faint smirk twitched his mouth, recognizing the reference to my opinion on his decorating scheme. How he could sleep with all those faces peering down at him, I had never understood, but the few times I had ever managed it were light dozes while sitting vigil.

He crossed the room to again sit in his chair, still staring at where I had turned to sit upright on the settee, and amusement rose in me at the obvious question in his gaze. He did not have to repeat himself for me to know what he was asking.

“I do not think there is anything,” I said, referring to how we could establish a dream was a dream before I woke. I paused for a moment, debating whether I wanted to voice my thoughts. What I considered saying would bring some encouragement, but to give that encouragement, I would have to admit another weakness. The worry still in his gaze granted me the words. “There was a difference between the dream and the settee this time. It will get better.”

“This time?” he repeated, wondering if I had misspoken. Understanding dawned in his gaze a moment later, and I broke eye contact, unwilling to watch as he realized how blurred the lines had become between reality and dream.

“Watson.”

I glanced back up to find him staring at me, a curious resolve in his gaze. I doubted he would voice it, and I studied him, trying to decipher his thoughts.

I could not quite manage it, however, and I raised an eyebrow when he remained silent, wondering why he had requested my attention if he had no plans to speak.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, his reddening ears giving away his discomfort at voicing what he had apparently hoped I would deduce. I waited patiently, willing to give him time to find the words.

“I am not going anywhere,” he finally said quietly, watching me to make sure I understood.

I had never grown skilled at deducing from nothing, as my friend could—and often did—but I had long ago learned to hear what he left unsaid. Our friendship would never have flourished if I had not.

That had been more than a reassurance. That had been a resolve, a promise that said many things in a short five words.

_I am here. You can believe in this. I will not leave you alone again._

_This is real. I swear._

I nodded. I knew that. I had finally believed him earlier, and the difference between the dream and the settee served as further proof. This was not a dream or hallucination. He was truly here— _I_ was truly here—and I knew it. It would just take time for that knowledge to reach my dreams.

I would probably end up sleeping on the settee for a while until it did—mostly because his resolve had included guarding my sleep. I would never get _him_ to sleep if I did not take the settee; I would have a hard enough time convincing him to take his bedroom…though I might let him win that argument the first few nights, until I was sure.

I broke eye contact again, this time looking around the room to note the bookshelf, the chairs, and other, smaller, things we had moved in the last few hours, cementing them in my mind so I would have the corresponding dates the next time a memory took over. He quickly deduced what I was doing, but he said nothing, merely retrieving the index that had fallen when he woke me and flipping to a page in the middle. Silence fell over the room once more, though I did not try to go back to sleep.

I watched him instead, and he pretended not to notice my gaze as he read. He had changed over the years, in more ways than just the lines on his face. His eyes carried more wariness, speaking without words everything he had seen and done while moving from place to place, avoiding Moran until he could turn hunter into hunted. He had mentioned donning a new name for every place, and the way some of his mannerisms had changed made me wonder if perhaps those disguises had finally become a part of him in a way that I had never before seen. In the hours since he had found me on the riverbank, he had shown more emotion than I had seen through most of the years before his supposed death. He was also more willing to speak his thoughts—even the ones that used to make him uncomfortable—and I cemented in my mind the changes in him just as I had the changes in the room around me. Aside from my own wish that the trend would continue, the differences would provide another reference against another day, another memory that took over and tried to make me doubt what was real. Each change was something else I could use, another anchor I could drop in the present as I sought the pieces of myself that had crumbled away over the last few months.

I had a reason to fight now, a reason to live, and there was no need to let the past control when the present had brought back my friend.

He eventually closed that index and stood, leaving the book in its new place on the shelf before moving about the room, and I noticed him purposely moving things as he refamiliarized himself with the room—rearranging his desk, moving the clutter on the mantle, swapping blankets on the settee. I made no comment. I did not need to. I noted it, and he knew I noted it. That was enough.

So when a new, very different chemistry set appeared on his table two days later, I merely smiled and noted that, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always greatly appreciated :)


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